


The Song

by Rosie_Sherlock_Watson



Series: The Evolution of Sherlock & John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Mild Smut, Multi, Other, Piano!John, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 02:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson/pseuds/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson
Summary: Sherlock won't stop playing this song, John figures it out, Sherlock breaks.





	The Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BooksAtTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksAtTea/gifts).



> So this is a request from BooksAtTea. She wanted a sequel to my last one-shot The Scars and I wanted to write something about the song I've been obsessing over. Killed two birds with one stone. Below will be some wonderful links for you guys. Hope you guys like it!!
> 
> UPDATE: I was informed that the links down below weren't working. So, after about an hour of fighting with html codes, I got it to work. Super sorry about that guys!!

_**27th of May, 2015** _

 

John sat in his chair listening to the notes flow from the violin as Sherlock moved his bow across the strings. It sounded familiar to him, but he figured he must have heard it before, even though it was the first time he’d heard it from the man in front of him. The song was sad and beautiful; much like Sherlock had been since The Scars Incident, as John had taken to calling it. He had been…reserved, almost. He still went half mad with boredom if they hadn’t had a case in a week. He still verbally attacked anybody who insulted him, though John expected it was more about stopping him from punching that person, Usually Anderson, in the throat.

It was more in their new relationship. Sherlock kissed him in the morning and stretched out on the couch with his head in John’s lap. Sometimes he would just walk over to where John was sitting in his chair, pluck the paper from his hands or the laptop off his lap, and curl into ball in its place, practically purring while John threaded his hands through his hair. For all intents and purposes he was a very affectionate house cat. But that’s as far as it went, really. They’d been together for two months. John was absolutely fine with taking it slow; not wanting to take anything Sherlock wasn’t ready to give. He had to admit, though, that he was surprised. Sherlock was direct about _everything_. Whether it be chasing down a criminal or asking for a cuddle, he wasn’t shy about want he wanted or needed.

It didn’t matter. For the longest time John had thought Sherlock was asexual. The fact the Sherlock was as affectionate as he had been was something of a miracle in and of itself. If that’s all John ever got then he was fine with that. As long as it meant he had Sherlock.

 

 

*******************

 

_**15th of July, 2015** _

 

A month had passed and still Sherlock just played that song. It was beginning to irritate John, if he was being honest with himself. _Really_ irritate him. He’s got himself imagining smashing the damn thing on more than one occasion. It was so much worse than when Irene Adler had “died” the first time around. At least then he had known the reason for it. There seemed to be no pattern to what triggered the song in Sherlock’s brain. John would run a hand through his hair as he walked by and then Sherlock would suddenly get up and start playing. He’d sit beside Sherlock on the couch while he was texting and pluck the phone from his hand, tugging Sherlock’s face toward his to give him a proper snog just for the sake of being able to, and then Sherlock would break away and play for _hours_. John would make them breakfast and for Sherlock to eat a little something, and afterward he would go play.

Only twice did he play for so long that John actually got concerned about what the song meant.

The first time was about two weeks after John had seen Sherlock’s scars. They’d been chasing a suspect through most of Brixton before cornering him in an old warehouse. Sherlock, with his impossibly long legs racing ahead of John as if he’d forgotten that John was the one with the gun, had found himself standing 10 feet away from the killer with a .357 Magnum pointed at his big beautiful brain. John had caught up with him and saw him being held at gunpoint. They’d both turned their heads to look at John and he caught the gunman’s eye. He saw the shift in them. Felt more than saw his finger twitch infinitesimally closer to the trigger.

John saw the suspect fall with a hole in his head before he even registered pulling his gun out.

John snapped at Sherlock to call the police three times, but all Sherlock did was stare at him, his mouth agape. John had eventually phoned Lestrade himself, shaking his head the entire time trying to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock. It was hardly the first time he’d been held at gun point. _No, but it was the first time he’s actually seen you kill for him. He’s in shock you bloody idiot_. He bit his lip to stop a smirk from stretching his face. Looking back at Sherlock, he saw him lick his lips and his eyes darken. John raised a questioning eyebrow at his flatmate/boyfriend, filing away the image for further discussion and examination.

When Greg arrived at the scene he looked at Sherlock, at John, and at the body before muttering curses and calling Mycroft. John had the sense to look sheepish and went to stand beside Sherlock as they walked out. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get away with it again. It was something he’d have to work on, not acting on the knee jerk reaction to _end_ anyone who even so much as looked at Sherlock like they were going to hurt him. The cab ride home was silent, and as John unlocked the door to 221B he prepared the mental snapshot he had saved of Sherlock in the warehouse, ready to discuss and explore the whole situation. However, Sherlock went straight to the window, to his _bloody_ violin and started playing that _bloody_ song. He played for hours and hours and only stopped as John was starting to drift off to sleep.

The second time was only last week. Greg had showed up at the flat with a difficult case, a very allusive art thief, reminiscent of the smuggler from The Blind Banker case. They’d found him and was chasing him through Central London when Sherlock suggested they split up and look for him. John hadn’t liked the idea but before he could protest, Sherlock was off. Cursing the whole time, John went in the opposite direction. He supposed it was just bad luck that he was the one who found the thief. They were standing in an alley, in between two flat buildings with windows behind them both. The moment they saw each other they had pulled their guns, his 10mm automatic leveled at John’s head and John’s Sig leveled at the thief’s chest. John had scanned the darkened windows for civilians, an old military habit from his days as a Captain, and was relieved to see they were empty. John wasn’t sure how long they stood there in a stand off until Sherlock found them.

The next three things happened very _fast_.

Sherlock’s body twitched to step forward. John opened his mouth to shout at him to stay put. A shot rang out.

Time froze for about 10 years as John processed those three things. John mentally prepared himself to brutally murder this man if Sherlock had gotten shot. John mentally prepared himself to talk Sherlock through treating a gun wound before an ambulance arrived if _John_ was the one who had gotten shot. Thankfully he wouldn’t have to do either.

The next three things happened very _slowly_.

The thief crumpled to the ground, red spreading on his chest like a bloody flower. John turned back to look at Sherlock, a smile of relief already tugging at his lips. The smile falling from his face as he watched Sherlock fall to his knees, looking like he was torn between sobbing and throwing up every meal he’s ever eaten.

Greg, Sally, and Anderson all ran around the corner and pulled up short at the sight. Anderson and Sally’s expression quickly turned from one of confusion to one of real _concern_. Greg scanned the scene, looking at Sherlock like he might need to call an ambulance for him, and reached around to pull out his handcuffs. John was confused for a moment before he saw Greg looking at him with a regretful expression, and his brain finally caught up.

“Oh for god’s sake it wasn’t me!” He walked over and handed Greg his gun. “See? Not fired. The shot came from the 5th floor window behind him.” John turned to kneel beside Sherlock, who was currently looking at him like he was a ghost. He placed his arm around Sherlock’s waist and raised his eyebrows. _Can you stand?_ Sherlock nodded and got to his feet, never taking his eyes from John’s. John nodded and removed his arm, taking Sherlock’s hand instead before turning to Greg. “Questions tomorrow.” It wasn’t a request and all of them knew it. Greg just nodded absentmindedly as he looked at the window where the shot was fired, a smirk tugging on his mouth.

When they got home Sherlock walked stiffly and silently to the window and started playing immediately. John considered going over there and talking to him about everything. Them, today, _this goddamn song_ , but Sherlock looked so tense he was afraid that simple breeze would shatter him. Still, he walked over prepared to put an end to the looping music ~~_what is that song I know that song_~~ and do something anything to help this beautiful genius. But he stopped. He froze. His heart shattered into a million pieces. It put itself back together again.

Sherlock was crying.

 _Sherlock_ was _crying_.

He laid a kiss against the back of Sherlock’s neck and then went into their bedroom. Sherlock was playing when John fell asleep and was still playing when he woke up.

 

*******************

 

_**24th of August, 2015** _

 

John woke up, groaning softly at the muffled notes floating down the hall and through the closed bedroom door. He glanced at the clock on the bedside drawer that red out 4.38 a.m. _What the hell?_ He turned over on his side and pulled the blanket tighter around him. _Maybe I should go talk to him. He’s my best friend. He’s my bloody boyfriend now, the secretive git_. John moved to get up, but his limbs were still only half functioning and they were heavy with exhaustion, so he flopped back down onto the bed and burrowed back under the covers.

He closed his eyes and listened to the music, and from somewhere in his sleep addled brain, words sprung up in his mind in time with the music.

 

_I'll be there as soon as I can_  
_But I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before_

 

 

John shot straight up in his bed. This song. _God_ this song.

 

*******************

 

**_February 2011_ **

 

John was not in love with Sherlock Holmes. John definitely loved Sherlock Holmes. How could he not? The mad bastard was, without a doubt, the most fascinating creature John had ever seen. He was manic and the personification of adrenaline and _god_ he was _bloody brilliant_. John never took note of how good Sherlock looked in his posh suits. Never thought that Sherlock in that purple suit should be illegal. He definitely never caught himself staring too long at Sherlock’s lips, hands, hair. Never kept eye contact a beat too long. Never felt disappointment when it ended. John loved Sherlock but he was _not_ in love with Sherlock.

 _The first step is admitting you have a problem, Johnny_.

The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his sister, Harry. He shoved it viciously out of his head and went back to reading his paper, ignoring the fact that he just caught himself staring at Sherlock’s long from stretched out on the couch, hands steepled beneath his chin. Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the coffee table and he leapt into a stance, entirely too dignified for someone in a rumpled grey t-shirt and pajama bottoms who was just wiggling his toes against the couch’s arm rest. He snatched his phone of the table and stalked into his room, texting.

10 minutes later he came back out; impeccably dressed in a black Spencer Hart suit and a white shirt, the first two buttons undone. “Case, John!” He says as he swipes his coat off the rack and sweeps out the door. John doesn’t hesitate, putting his paper down and following Sherlock out the door. He oscillates on the top step, considering a detail he knows Sherlock would find unimportant.

“Do we need the gun?” He calls down, barely getting the question out before receiving a clipped response from Sherlock.

“No. Hurry up!”

He allowed himself a small smile as he trampled down the steps after Sherlock, out the front door and into the cab that Sherlock has already seemed to miraculously hail. Half of the ride is spent in silence, interrupted only by the sound of Sherlock’s texting. “What’s the case then, Sherlock?” John asked, looking out the window, watching the city just roll by, getting to the more expensive parts of London.

“Embezzlement scheme. The Landmark Hotel.” Sherlock tucked his phone back into his trousers and stared a burning hole into the back of the cabbies seat, his hand up by his mouth, twitching the way it does when he’s full of nervous energy.

“So what’s different about this one, then?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock turned to look at him, curiosity and confusion his face, his hand still for a moment.

“You, Sherlock. You’re nervous. What is it?” he lets the budding smirk show on his face and watches with a sick enjoyment as defiance takes the place of curiosity in his eyes.

“I’m not nervous! Why would I be nervous?”

“I know you, Sherlock. You’re jumpy. You haven’t been jumpy since…” He trails off, neither one of them needing to finish that sentence to understand. _The pool_. He still has nightmares about it. Sometimes John getting shot and landing on his back, suddenly in the desert. Sometimes it’s Sherlock getting shot, in the head, in the heart, falling into the pool and turning the water red. Sometimes it’s the bomb exploding and then they’re going home and _finally_ having the most mind blowing shag anyone could ever imagine. John tries very hard not to think about that one.

“I’m fine, John. Simple case. Should be in and out quickly.” Sherlock feigned nonchalance and turned his face toward the window, hand still twitching. _Unconscious tell_. John bites his lip to keep from smirking.

“Right. What’s the plan, then?”

“I’m going to look around. Talk to a few of the workers.”

“How are you going to do that? Won’t the workers be…working?”

“I envy you, John, I really do.”

“Sherlock.”

“There will be a distraction.”

“Ha! What poor bloke did you-” he cut off, processing what Sherlock had just said. “ _You_ will be talking to the workers? What will I be doing?” Sherlock smiled, that really annoying ‘now you’re asking the right questions’ smile, as they pulled up to the hotel. Molly Hooper stood outside in a stunning blue dress, holding a grey Tom Ford garment bag in her arms.

“You’ll be the distraction, of course.” He leapt out of the cab and strode into the building, leaving John scrambling to pay the cabbie and follow.

“Wha- Wait! Sherlock!” John got out of the cab and went to go inside when Molly took him by the arm and steered him toward a side entrance a bit down the road.

“I hope it’s the right size. Sherlock’s never wrong but still, I’m not used to those kinds of places. A bit posh for me.” Molly started as they walked.

“Wha-”

“You never told me you could play. I took up the guitar a bit in uni. Went through a bit of a hippie phase, I’m afraid. You should see the pictures. Actually, don’t. I might burn them instead.” Molly laughed lightly and they approached the door. John had absolutely no idea what was happening and he wasn’t taking another step until he did. He stopped them in front of the door.

“Molly, stop. What’s going on?” Molly turned to him, a small confused smile on her face.

“Didn’t Sherlock explain?”

“When does Sherlock ever explain? He thinks I’m a bloody mind reader.”

“Well can you blame him? You understand better than anyone, you don’t just tolerate him. He can tell the difference.”

“Molly.”

“Right. Erm- you’re the distraction. You’re going to play for them.”

“Play? Wha-play for who?!” Sherlock popped his head out of the side entrance, buttons down all the way up and a black bow tie around his neck.

“Come on!” He snaps before disappearing back inside.

John sighs and goes in and is suddenly surrounded by white. To his right is a white door marked ‘Employees’, to his left a long white hallway leading to steel double doors, and right in front of him is Sherlock, leaning against a white wall beside another long hallway leading to red double doors. He needed to look away from Sherlock, who was standing there texting looking like a spokesperson for some sort of hell-angel. John very pointedly did _not_ think about how bloody _gorgeous_ Sherlock was.

Molly pushes the bag into John’s arms and then turns to Sherlock. “Everything else is ready. Chris is waiting for me, so can I…”

“Yes, yes. Go.” Sherlock replied, not looking up from his phone. Molly smiled and scurried off toward the red double doors.

“Sherlock, did you interrupt Molly’s date for this?” John asked, incredulous ~~_and slightly disappointed that Sherlock purposefully ruins other people’s love lives besides his own_~~.

“Yes.”

“Sherlock that’s no-”

“He’s already half in love with her; I doubt there’s much Molly could do that would prevent him from asking her out on a second date. Now, go in there,” Sherlock nodded toward the door marked ‘Employees’. “And change. You can’t play in an oatmeal coloured jumper and jeans."

John thought about arguing, but decided to just go with it and go change. Undressing and dressing quickly, in what turned out to be a men’s bathroom, he couldn’t help but think how good Sherlock is with clothes. Wearing an all black three piece suit and a charcoal grey tie, he’d had to admit that he looked pretty damn good. He looked at his shoes that sat on the counter. They were brown. He cringed at the thought of messing up Sherlock’s carefully chosen outfit, but it didn’t seem like he had a choice. As soon as he reached for them Sherlock came in, took his shoes off the counter, pausing briefly to look John over, and put black Louboutins in their place before walking out.

John decided not to think about how Sherlock knew he was done dressing.

Once he put on the shoes he walked out to find Sherlock in the same exact position he was in when John went inside the bathroom, still texting. _What the bloody hell was he doing?_ Sherlock turned to walk to toward the red doors and John followed.

“How did you know I could play?” John asked. By now he usually just accepted that Sherlock knew things about him, but the piano was something John had actively tried to keep from Sherlock. He hadn’t played in years and he was very much afraid that Sherlock would decide it was time to add a grand piano to their already cluttered flat.

“Case a few months back. Burglary at the piano shop on Albany. You were visibly upset at the vandalism of a Beichman. I’ve also caught you tapping your fingers. Not in any particular tune, but in a way that resembled playing piano. You even had the placements right. But you haven’t played in a while so you must have been quite good.” Sherlock had tucked his phone back into his trouser pockets and was bloody preening at being able to show off for John again. John tried not to think about how good that made him feel. He failed.

“How do you know I haven’t played in a while?” John asked, deciding to let Sherlock show some more. Plus, he was genuinely curious.

“Callouses on your thumb and forefinger. It’s from pressing the two and the seven, yes? But they’re old, at least 8 years old.”

“Amazing!” John blurted. He’d been careful with his praise these last few months. They came out far too often for too little and he was afraid Sherlock would start reading in to it. Sherlock was just so bloody _incredible_ he hadn’t been able to help it at first. He didn’t need Sherlock thinking he meant more to John than a friend and a flatmate. Especially since he was definitely _not in love_ with Sherlock.

Sherlock stood a little straighter at the compliment and pushed through the doors. John froze as he stood in the atrium of the The Winter Garden restaurant in The Landmark Hotel.

“You’ll do fine.” Sherlock murmured, closer to John than he had been a few seconds ago.

“What do I even play? I haven’t play in 10 years, Sherlock and even then I had never learned to play anything classical.” John said, not bothering to be ashamed of the panic in his voice.

“We don’t want classical. That’s what these people are used to. I’ve taken care of the music, don’t worry.”

“You don’t know what I used to play, how did you ‘take care’ of it?”

“I spoke to Harry.”

“Yo- _You what?!_ ” John sputtered.

“You’ll be amazing. You always are. Go.” Sherlock gave John a gentle shove toward the piano platform and disappeared behind the red doors, not giving John a chance to react or even process the compliment from Sherlock. Swallowing his fear and his pride, he walked up the steps ready to make a fool of himself. He realised, as he sat down on the bench of the glossy black Steinway & Sons, that he had no idea whether or not he was supposed to really play for these people or bomb on purpose.

He straightened up and looked at the sheet music out of habit, even though he was confident he didn’t remember out to read it anymore. _“Unintended”_ by Muse. It was one of his favourites. The one song both he and Harry were sure he’d be able to play when he was a blind 90 year old man. He smiled softly to himself and began to play, letting the words flow in his head in time to the music.

 

_You could be my unintended_  
_Choice to live my life extended_  
_You could be the one I'll always love_  
_You could be the one who listens to my deepest inquisitions_  
_You could be the one I'll always love_

_I'll be there as soon as I can_  
_But I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before_

_First there was the one who challenged_  
_All my dreams and all my balance_  
_She could never be as good as you_

_You could be my unintended_  
_Choice to live my life extended_  
_You should be the one I'll always love_

_I'll be there as soon as I can_  
_But I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before_

_I'll be there as soon as I can_  
_But I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before_

_Before you_

He finished and looked out into the crowd. No one was eating. Everyone was staring at him. Including a waiter who was currently being absentmindedly handcuffed by Greg, who was also staring at John, who was standing beside Sherlock, who was staring very intently at John with a look he couldn’t even begin to decipher.

The cab ride was dead silent. They didn’t talk at all, in fact, until the next morning where they both pretended like John hadn’t accidentally revealed something about himself and that Sherlock hadn’t been mesmerised by it.

That night, John tried very _very_ hard not to think about the fact that the entire time he was playing that song, the only thing on his mind was an utterly mad curly haired detective.

 

*******************

 

_**24th of August, 2015** _

 

John doesn’t really register getting out of bed. He doesn’t realise he’s stumbling down the hallway and through the kitchen until he’s standing a hair’s breadth away from away from Sherlock Holmes, his lips inches from his neck. He presses a soft kiss against the skin below his hairline before moving to Sherlock’s side. He gently pries the worn Stradivarius out of Sherlock’s hands; his while body as stiff as a board, and places it in Sherlock’s chair. He stands fully in front of Sherlock now, peppering kisses all over his neck and face and jaw.

“It’s been driving me crazy not being able to figure out what that song was.” He whispers into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t care about your scars, Sherlock.” He kisses up his neck, nipping and licking at the skin as he goes. He finally gets to his lips, ghosting his own lips over Sherlock’s before gently biting his bottom lip before sweeping his tongue gingerly over the area. “I love you _so goddamn much_ , Sherlock.” He takes Sherlock’s mouth, plundering it with his tongue and moaning in relief as Sherlock melts against him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I love you. I’m sorry.” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips over and over again.

John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist while snaking his other hand to Sherlock’s neck, pulling him flush against his body. “What the hell are you talking about?” John growls. John starts backing them toward his chair and he pushes Sherlock down in it, straddling him “You have nothing to apologise for. I should have done this months ago.” He attacks Sherlock’s neck, sucking and biting and licking so hard that he’s sure to leave a hickey for everyone to see. _I probably should have asked him first but god he’s so fuc-_ John’s thoughts are cut off when he feels Sherlock’s arms slide around his waist and pull him closer, bury his face in John’s neck.

“I needed to fix it first. I couldn’t give you something that was broken, I needed to fix it. I need to fix it.” John could feel something hot and wet sliding down his neck and into his shirt. His heart froze, shattered, mended itself, and melted in the three seconds it took to realise that Sherlock was crying. “I needed to fix it. I needed it to fix it.”

“What, love?” He moved Sherlock’s head from his neck and held his face in his hand, wiping his tears away. “Look at me, Sherlock. I love you. Whatever needs to be fixed we’ll do it together. Always together.” He looked straight into those grey-blue. He needed Sherlock to realise that nothing he said or did would change how John felt about him. If he could still be in love with him after believing he was dead for two years, he would always love him. “What did you need to fix?”

“Me.” Sherlock’s voice was a broken whisper. It would have brought tears to John’s eyes if he hadn’t been focused on the truth of what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock thought he was _broken_. He thought _John_ wouldn’t _want_ him if he was _broken_. John needed to correct that. Now. Yesterday. He crashed his lips to Sherlock’s in a deep bruising kiss, opening him up and slowly pushing his tongue inside, languidly tangling it with Sherlock. As affectionate as Sherlock was, emotion confused him. Scared him even, sometimes. So John was not going to be sentimental with Sherlock. He was going to be honest and logical.

“You can’t be fixed, Sherlock.” He said against Sherlock’s mouth. He swallowed and continued. “Some things can’t be fixed. You’ve fought an underground war on your own and you have literal scars to show for it. Men who’ve been through less have nightmares for the rest of their lives. I’ve never been…tortured.” John nearly choked on the word, but he had to say this. “And I still have nightmares. It’s okay if you’re a little broken, Sherlock. I’m broken too. I’m broken too and you still want me and I still want you and I don’t care about your scars I jus- _Christ_ Sherlock I love you so _fucking_ much. I lo-”

Sherlock cut him off by gripping his shirt and slamming his mouth on John’s once more. It was uncoordinated and sloppy and their teeth clinked but neither of them cared because it was so _bloody perfect_. It was exactly what they needed right now. John wanted Sherlock to release all the things he’d been bottling up these past few months, _needed_ Sherlock to trust him with this even if Sherlock didn’t fully understand what _this_ was.

John’s hips began to rock against Sherlock, soft moans and gasps escaping them both. Sherlock’s fingers found the hem of John’s shirt and started tugging it up. John immediately lifted his arms and allowed Sherlock to peel his shirt off him. Sherlock raised his arms in return and John wasted no time undressing him. Sherlock kissed his way down John’s neck, his shoulder his chest. He left his tongue glide over one of John’s nipples, flicking it with his tongue before taking it into his mouth and sucking, rolling it between his teeth. John should have been embarrassed at the sound he made, at his back arching so far and pushing further into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands tangled in that mess of black inky curls. He didn’t know how such a small action had turned him into this panting, needy, _wanting_ thing that needed Sherlock in their bed, naked as soon as possible.

Their kisses slowed. They turned loving it spoke volumes on their love for each other rather than the fear and hunger of previous kisses before. John slid off of Sherlock’s lap and led him to their bedroom, where they spent hours upon hours upon _hours_ memorising the feel of hands and lips and tongues and teeth on skin. They would spend the next few days ignoring phone calls and texts and visitors in favour of learning exactly how long it takes to turn each other into a begging, mewling, quivering mess. They’d spend the next few months, years solving cases as usual, with added kisses and touches in public, John having to fight the urge to smirk 24/7 at _finally_ being able to take Sherlock’s hand and make it clear that Sherlock is undeniably _his_ and nothing will ever change that.

They’d spend the rest of the lives not trying to fix each other, and by doing so, they did exactly that.

**Author's Note:**

> Featured Song: "Unintended" by Muse
> 
>  
> 
> [Original Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJDAmXHHfuM)
> 
>  
> 
> [Sherlock's Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8mlrBsAatA)
> 
>  
> 
> [John's Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgpAGRCIokc)
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to read the story this is branched off from you can do that [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10648227)
> 
> P.S. Apologies to anyone who's actually been to The Landmark Hotel in London. I've never been so I kind of just winged it xD


End file.
